Forge Netting 7: A Fallen Palace

The Palace of Lies was a memory bar – when they discovered that most of the memories were accessible certain entrepreneurs started to capture and steal memories from peoples heads and sell them to others.

There was a certain irony to the fact that it was cheaper to buy someone else’s memories than it was to pay for your own to be restored. Brain chemistry messed with; neural pathways diverted. When the Memory Men came for them and tried to fix them now they had a whole bunch of added extras for problems.

The War On Amnesia as it came to be known was both a war against disease and a fight againt the wilful embrace of forgetfulness that some people engaged in.

The Forgetful began to organise – some of them having learned how to operate out of their aberrant states of mind. They began to strike at the Memory Centres (those havens of remembering that had grown from the Diary Bunkers). The happiness they felt in their blankness was not wanted; was marked to be wiped out.

Ruebeau was, he thought, a much different person than he had been when all this started. No one knew how long ago that was – well, no one in the ranks of the group he was a part of anyway. A memory-free world had seemed such a strange concept to people before it had arrived … but here it was. No longer was day upon day strung together in a causal chain that stretched back through time; now people existed in separated moments, each decision a set adrift island in a haphazard stream of time.

He knew that they had been chasing him for an age, that they somehow figured he was some kind of pivotal figure in this whole situation. He didn’t get it himself but he thought that it would be nice to understand it all one day, maybe. But until then he would have to keep running.

He had seen his pursuer; he had filled his memory sphere full of idents, and this one was set off a lot – at least the recog-count told him that.

He lifted up the insert tube and placed it under his tongue, began to imbibe others memories. A hunger that might never be sated; a strange hunger to have given how he had arrived where he was. A king for a day in the palace of lies.


empire cyst

random patterns
are for gods and slatterns
the dance of atoms
is a repeating fractal
and none has cracked all
the codes tumbling slowly
through orbits about our heads
those superstrings are strange threads
stitched into tapestries that tatter
when we try to reconcile energy and matter

that teleological argument attracts
but every theory eventually cracks
as the flaw becomes apparent in the testing
trying to identify the states in which we’re resting
like immovable objects awaiting some catalyst
some supercollider spark of genius erupting
you’re looking in one direction and all else is missed
do you wonder about the universe you’re corrupting?
the universe will passively resist
the inquiries of a scientist
like the self-blinded man of faith
he spends his life chasing a wraith


The pain of unreciprocated love
Is something that everyone knows once and
Fits this deep wounded soul just like a glove,
Holding the pierced heart in the bleeding hand.
In the end we all have to choose to die
Or find someone else we can crucify,
Forget your gender and render the sky
A new colour in your burgeoning eye —
You can live, just remember how to try,
Shrug off death and don’t ever eat the lie:
We must try to free the pigs from the sty,
Seek out and capture, and shoot down the spy.
We want to stop your pain but not to pry,
We try to understand but you ask, why?

Over The Disease

He swears to himself that he will
Not let the curse of a cancerous growth
Consume the power of a sacred oath:
Determination will defeat the hill,
Overcome the tumour that seeks to kill
Faculties, mental and physical, both,
His shortened span never allows for sloth
And he struggles on still though he is ill —
Certain others would throw him in the bin
All because if this ripening disease,
But does it free him from having to try
By blaming it on a carcinogen?
Or, just, when he fails it saves their unease,
They can’t help it as they watcha friend die.

14 Lines

Every single set of fourteen lines
In an eloquent form of verse enshrines
The message I’d wanted to put across:
That is why I truly love the sonnet —
I’d place the weight of my love upon it;
A structured form, the words, can truly emboss.
A successful sonnet defines
Its themes while following traditonal signs.
I write these lines for Shakespeare’s great ear,
Though he’s passed on from this sublunar sphere,
Held to the glowing breast of yesteryear —
His excellence is something all should steer
Towards if it is at all possible;
The attainment isn’t impossible.


A poured habitat
turned out of a tank,
a liquid blanket unfolded,
ripples of a creation

from a raindrop heart.

An aqueous physique,
a fountain-head.
Crystalline aspect of the trinity:
this world’s a tributary of him,
he is the water table.

A spring.


The moon tugs this lazy black tide,
feathers are made invalid.
A disaster empties the skies,
man’s construction spews fire.
Pollution is a dark cloud:
throats are stripped,
lungs peeled.
A foundation of ash,
Deep melanin vales —
a spillage of shadows.